


In Search of Baudelaire

by kaz_shirakawa



Category: Groundhog Day (1993)
Genre: Baudelaire, Eating, F/M, French poetry, Groundhog Day, Impressing Someone, Libraries, Missing Scene, Mostly Canon Compliant, Punxsutawney, Slice of Life, Time Loop, Yuletide, Yuletide 2018, Yuletide Treat, absent-minded professor, can't get a word in edgewise, cooking for two after your wife died, groundhog weatherman, small-town library, stuck in Punxsutawney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 01:04:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16923675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaz_shirakawa/pseuds/kaz_shirakawa
Summary: Phil looks for some nineteenth-century French poetry to impress Rita with — and with the help of a rather odd professor who invites him to dinner but barely speaks with him, manages to find some.





	In Search of Baudelaire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowerdeluce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/gifts).



“You just heard it, everyone—six more weeks of winter! Stay safe!

“From Gobbler’s Knob in Punxsutawney, this is Phil Connors. So long!”

Phil was in a good mood that morning—or should one say, on that particular instance of one and the same morning?

He had a plan for that day, and that kept his spirits up. 

“How about we all meet up at that diner over there in ten minutes? I’m inviting you all for coffee,” Phil said.

Larry looked happy, but Rita looked skeptical. “And a doughnut,” Phil added, and Rita replied, “Oh, all right then. But weren’t you in a hurry to get back to Pittsburgh?”

“There’s a blizzard heading this way; we’ll never make it back to Pittsburgh today.”

“But you said that the blizzard would hit Altoona to the east!”

“I know that’s what I _said_ , but I think that groundhog fella knows more than I gave him credit for,” Phil said. “There seems to be a lot of snow moving in and I think the roads will be closed. You had better tell your hotel that you’ll be staying another night.”

“What?” said Rita. 

“You’re the weatherman, Phil,” said Larry. 

“Uh, sure. You’re the weatherman, I guess,” Rita said. “We’ll meet you in the diner in ten, then, when we’ve finished taking down our equipment.”

“I’ll keep a table for you!” said Phil. 

* * *

Rita had picked a sticky bun, on Phil’s recommendation, and Phil had a slice of cheesecake. Larry went with a raspberry pastry and a cup of coffee with skim milk and two sugars.

Phil started into his cheesecake with a fork as Rita said, “I’ve tried to get hold of the station, but I just got the operator telling me that all lines were down on account of the weather. Guess you were right and we will have to stay here another night.”

“Mm,” Phil said before swallowing. He waved his fork and continued, “Like I said, smart little fella, that groundhog.”

“How long do you reckon we’ll be trapped here?” Larry asked. 

“Oh, just until tomorrow, I think. But don’t think if it as being ‘trapped’—have a look around Punxsutawney; take advantage of our little extra vacation!”

“I thought you hated this town!” Rita said.

“Well, it’s beginning to grow on me.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with our Phil?” Rita asked with a smile. 

“I’m fine,” Phil insisted. “It’s just the small-town air that’s doing me good, I think.”

“Perhaps we should come here more often, then!” said Rita.

Phil just smiled and had another forkful of cheesecake.

After he had enjoyed it unhurriedly, he said, “Seriously, though: let’s make the most of our day here. No headquarters to rush us, no deadlines we can do anything about. Just go back over to Gobbler’s Knob and join in the festivities, take a walk around town, or just curl up in your room with a good book.”

“What are _you_ going to do, Phil?” asked Larry.

“Oh, just take a walk around the town, I think. Perhaps I’ll see you this evening at the hotel bar, though?”

“Nah, not me. I‘ve heard there’s going to be a groundhog dinner tonight and I want to go there.”

“Suit yourself, Larry. Rita?”

“Sure, why not? How about seven?”

“Sounds good to me. See you this evening, then!”

“See you!”

Rita picked up the last tiny piece of sticky bun and said to Phil, “These sticky buns here really are heavenly! How did you _know_?” She put it in her mouth, licked her fingers, and followed Larry out of the diner.

* * *

After the two had left, Phil looked into his coffee cup and saw that it was empty. He looked through the window of the diner and saw a ray of sunlight peeking out from between the clouds. It gave him a good feeling. 

He waved to Doris, the waitress. When she arrived, he paid for everything and gave her an extra twenty as a tip. Yes, he was indeed feeling good. 

He left the diner and turned left, then turned right onto Kinnear Street at the corner with the old Post Office. This street was where Punxsutawney’s town library must lie, according to what Mrs. Lancaster had told him in the guesthouse that morning when he had asked her. 

Phil put his hands in his coat pockets as a nippy gust made them too cold for comfort, but started whistling a little tune. 

There, that must be it: a rather nondescript building, but there were pictures of books in the windows. He took a closer look and saw that they had been drawn in crayon; he hoped the library catered to adults as well. 

He walked up the three steps to the front door and gave the bar a pull: the door was locked. 

Odd, he thought; Mrs. Lancaster had said that it opened at nine. 

Then he heard a shuffle of footsteps from inside and a jingle of keys, and the door opened. 

“I’m sorry,” said the woman who opened the door for him, “I wasn’t expecting anyone to come in today. It’s Groundhog Day, you know, and everyone’s at Gobbler’s Knob!”

“So they are,” replied Phil, “but while I was there, I thought of some books I would like to read.”

“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place, then, Mr. —?”

“Connors. Phil Connors.”

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Connors! I’m Ruth. Please do come in!”

The name fit the short, elderly lady with the bluish hair standing in front of him, Phil thought, as he walked into the library and looked around. 

“Can I help you find a particular book, Mr. Connors? What sort of books were you looking for?”

“Yes—I’m looking for nineteenth-century French poetry. Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine. That sort of thing. Perhaps Victor Hugo. Do you have any?”

“I don’t think we have any French books here at all, but let me check my card catalog for you. What did you say the first one was called? Bowdler?”

Phil rolled his eyes internally but said patiently, “Baudelaire. And the books don’t have to be in French. In fact, I’d prefer to read them in English translation. Why don’t you just show me where you have European poetry and I’ll look around that section?”

“Of course, Mr. Connors. I’ll take you there, and feel free to look around! And just call me if you need any help; I’ll be sitting at my desk.”

The library was a small one and the section with European poetry and literature that Ruth showed him to was even smaller; it did not take Phil long to find that they had no French poetry at all, nineteenth-century or otherwise. In fact, “European literature” seemed to consist entirely of English writers; there wasn’t even anything by Shaw. 

He walked over to the librarian’s desk and Ruth cheerfully asked him, “And? Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I’m afraid not,” Phil replied. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Connors. We are only a small library… but if you would write down what you are looking for, I could try to get you something by interlibrary loan—with a bit of luck, it might even be here by tomorrow if they have it in Pittsburgh and I don’t have to go looking further afield!”

Phil groaned inwardly at the mention of the word “tomorrow,” but he tried to remain friendly. 

“No, it really has to be today. Do you have any other idea where I could look?”

“French poetry it was you were looking for? Well, it’s a bit of a long shot, but you could try to visit Sam Foster down on Maple Avenue… he’s a retired university professor. I’m not quite sure what he taught, but it was something with literature, I think. Tell him Ruth Carpenter sent you.”

“All right, I’ll try him. Thank you very much, Ms. Carpenter!”

“Please, call me Ruth!”

* * *

Finding Maple Avenue was not difficult; Punxsutawney was small and by now, Phil knew every street and alleyway like the back of his hand. 

Number 37 was a stately little home set back a bit from the street and with a garden path winding its way through a couple of fountains from the front gate to the door of the house itself. 

Instead of a doorbell, there was a knocker in the shape of a lion’s head at the door; Phil lifted it and gave it two sharp raps, then listened to see whether anyone was at home. 

He was about to turn around a bit disappointedly and walk back towards the garden gate when the door was opened by an elderly gentleman wearing a knitted cardigan over a shirt and tie, with a long apron on top of all that and a wooden spoon in his hand. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Professor Foster. I’m obviously disturbing you while you’re cooking.”

“Just a bit; don’t worry about it. How can I help you?”

“My name is Phil Connors. Ruth Carpenter said you might be able to help me.”

“Ah, Ruth! How’s she doing these days? And what do you need help with? But—forgive my manners; I can’t leave you standing out here in the cold! Please come in, take off your coat and sit down in the lounge, first door on the right. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

And before Phil could say anything, the professor had disappeared, presumably into the kitchen, leaving the door open. 

Phil entered and hung his coat and hat on a couple of golden hooks just inside the door, then closed the door behind him. 

The lounge looked comfortable, with plush upholstered armchairs and a fireplace. Phil picked a chair and sat down. Looking around, his eyes were drawn to a framed photograph on the mantelpiece: it showed an elderly couple. Phil recognized the man: it was the professor. Presumably, the woman was his wife. 

One wall was covered in bookshelves which were filled with books: so many, in fact, that there were piles of books in front of the ones standing upright on the shelves. 

About ten minutes later, the professor came back. Before Phil could say anything, the professor said, “There! Dinner’s served. Please follow me into the dining room.”

“But—“

The professor had already turned his back and left. Odd man, Phil thought. He got up and followed him into the dining room, where there were two places set. There was roast beef on the table, a bowl of roast potatoes, a silver gravy boat, and peas and carrots in another bowl. 

“I’m sorry,” said Phil, “were you expecting company?”

“Oh! Oh, no. It’s just… I’ve cooked for two for so long that even after Gladys passed away, I’ve always made enough for two. I’m glad to have you over and help me eat it all! And any friend of Ruth’s is a friend of mine. Do sit down, please!”

“I’m not a friend of Ruth’s as such,” Phil said. “I just—“

“No matter, no matter!” the professor interrupted. “Please sit down and join me for dinner!”

Phil saw that the professor was not going to let him finish a sentence until after dinner, which he had obviously had pride in preparing. And the roast potatoes _did_ look good. 

He sat down and both of them started to eat. Not only were the potatoes as good as they had looked, but the gravy was excellent as well and the meat was nice and tender. 

They ate in silence, as the professor did not start a conversation and Phil did not feel that he would be responsive to any attempt on his part to do so. So he concentrated on the meal and thought of Rita. Rita, who was so much more than a producer. Rita with the beautiful hair and the wonderful smile. Rita who was the kindest, sweetest, and most generous person he knew. Rita whose nose looked cute as a button when she scrunched up her face in her groundhog imitation. Rita whom he wanted to be with. Thinking of her put a big, contented smile on his face. 

After they had both finished eating, the professor sent Phil back into the lounge while he cleared the table and washed the dishes. 

Phil began to be impatient, but he reminded himself that he literally had all the time in the world: anything he didn’t manage to do today he could do the next time today rolled around. So he just leaned back in the comfortable armchair, steepled his fingers, and waited. 

* * *

“So, friend of Ruth’s,” said the professor when he had come back into the lounge and sat down in another armchair, facing the one the Phil sat in. “Thank you for keeping me company and for sharing the meal with me! Now tell me: how can I help you?”

“Well, Professor—“

“Please, call me Sam!”

“All right then, Sam. I’m looking for nineteenth-century French literature or poetry, and Ruth said that perhaps you might be able to help me. She said you had taught literature at university?”

“Yes indeed—though my focus was on medieval German literature and poetry, especially the _Minnesänger:_ love poetry. Some amazing poetry those bards wrote!”

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, then, Sam!”

“Oh no, it wasn’t a waste at all! As I said before, anyone whom Ruth sends to me personally is a friend of mine, and I was grateful to you for sharing the meal with me.

“Nor do I think it was a waste of time for you, my friend! I may not have taught French literature, but I like to think I have an open mind, and I have read a fair cross-section of European poetry in my time, particularly to compare it with _Minnesang,_ of course, but also in its own interest. All in translation, I’m afraid: while I can read Middle High German reasonably fluently by now and read the poems in the original, I unfortunately cannot claim the same level of expertise with French or Spanish literature. 

“Is there anything in particular you are looking for? I could try to see what I have in my library here.”

“Do you have anything by Baudelaire, for example? Or Rimbaud or Verlaine?”

“Ah, Baudelaire! Yes, I think I should have some Baudelaire somewhere… let me have a look.”

The professor began searching through his shelves, sometimes with his eyes, sometimes moving some books aside to peer behind them, sometimes taking a few books out to look at the second row. 

The books seemed to have been shelved without any discernible pattern, but it didn’t take the professor long to find what he had apparently been looking for. 

“Here, hold this!” he said and thrust an old navy-blue book with a worn binding into Phil’s hands. 

After another excursion into the shelves, the professor came back with a slightly smaller book, this one in a mustard yellow cover, which he also handed to Phil. He saw that the books were entitled The Flowers of Evil and Paris Spleen, both by Baudelaire. Flipping open one of the books, he saw a handsomely engraved bookplate with the words _Ex libris Samuel Foster_ on it. 

“Are those any help? Or do you need more?”

“That will do nicely, thank you very much, Sam!”

“A pleasure, a pleasure!”

“Might I borrow one of them?”

“Take both, my boy, take both! Just as long as you promise to tell me what you thought of them when you bring them back. I trust you will take good care of them.”

“I promise. Thank you very much again, Sam! You have been extremely helpful!”

“The pleasure is all mine. Now if you will excuse me, it is time for my afternoon nap. Feel free to stay or leave.”

And with that, the odd professor turned and left the room without even looking back at Phil. Shortly afterward, Phil heard the creak of the professor’s footsteps going up the old staircase, the sound of a door shutting, then silence. 

He shrugged, tucked the books under his arm and left, shutting the front door behind him. 

* * *

“Of course, it’s about a million miles from where I started out in college.”

“You weren’t in broadcasting or journalism?”

“No. Believe it or not, I studied nineteenth-century French poetry.”

“Really? I just read some Baudelaire this afternoon! C’est fantastique.”

“Phil, I am amazed. And I am not easily amazed.”

“I’m very versatile,” Phil said and smiled. 

T H E   E N D


End file.
